I'm in my mother's wonderful arms,
Held close to her on my grandmother's
Divan. I am two years old. My mother
Is singing, and warm morning light,
Entering through a southern-facing window,
Fills the room with golden clouds.
We are living in a rented white stucco house
Ten blocks from the lake in Lodi, California.
Very soon, Jeanne will take me to the lake.
Young lifeguards will teach me to swim
While she is reading a book on the beach.
They will throw me back and forth like a tiny ball.
They will make me laugh and breathe heavily
Before taking me into very clear blue water.
Outside, there is a great rattling sound:
My father is mowing the lawn. I am naked.
"Mama," I ask, "Dada?"
"Your father," she says, "has just returned
From the War; he has many things on his mind."
I do not understand these words.
She corrects herself, as only she can.
"Dada remembers bad things. He is working,
Michael, in order to forget."
I still do not understand. I am only two.
The fragrance of her perfume is delicate
But intoxicating. I stare into her beautiful eyes.
I am waiting for the song to continue.

Late summer, 1994.
I'm in a 747 flying back from New York
To San Francisco. Regrettably, I'm alone.
I pick up a magazine to ease my mind:
Within it, is an article on the genocide
In Rwanda. On one page is a photograph
Of a long table in a clearing, surrounded
By jungle. On this table are countless skulls.
500,000 or more, perhaps. Devastating
Evidence of man's horrible possibilities.
Back home, in the sanctuary of my studio,
I begin a very large watercolor, entitled:
The Table of Truth. It's impossible to paint
500,000 chalk-white skulls. It's impossible
To imagine this vicious, unbelievable reality.
It's impossible to imagine many things.

I'm reductive by nature. I paint seven skulls.
More than enough. In war, there is no truth;
There is only history: history which can be
Removed with Eberhard Faber, pink pearl
Erasers, or with tremendous nuclear force.
Normal people brush teeth with Neem sticks.
The imperious have only one brutal attitude.
Forward to May, 2006. The Darfur genocide.
Another photo. George W. Bush and SLA leader,
Minni Arkou Minnowi, are holding right hands
Loosely, celebrating another preposterous accord.
Both men are smiling at the cameras.
Both men are covering their genitals
With their left hands. No need to paint this.
No Janjaweed, Chinese, or camels present.
Only the buyer and the bought in this picture.

Jaimie Withers had a very strange pet.
His father had brought it from Brazil.
William Withers was a money man.
"An international player." my father said.
He was always bringing his children
Bizarre gifts from jungles and deserts.
We had Guinea Pigs. I built little houses
For them. We didn't have tarantulas or
Pythons. I asked my father, "Can you buy
Me a zebra?" "When you're old enough
To drive," he responded. "Dad," I continued,
"How about a '56 Chevy?" "When you're
Old enough to swim!" Dad didn't have money.
"Listen, Michael," he said, "when building
Those little houses for your pigs, there, why
Not give them some windows?" "They don't
Need windows;" I said, "They're always
Talking in the streets."

Deep black water appears solid
As pumiced and polished granite.
Upon it, delicate pads of algae,
Tinged lavender, spiral lazily on
Some unknowable journey under
The influence of the pen in the air.